


Aftermath

by lyryk (s_k)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 06:51:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s_k/pseuds/lyryk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><a href="http://spnspringfling.livejournal.com/61198.html">Written for springfling</a>. Thanks to <a href="http://applegeuse.livejournal.com">applegeuse</a> for the beta. <3</p>
    </blockquote>





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [colls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/colls/gifts).



> [Written for springfling](http://spnspringfling.livejournal.com/61198.html). Thanks to [applegeuse](http://applegeuse.livejournal.com) for the beta. <3

The angels have finally stopped falling out of the sky, and the air around the church is still and damp. Dean’s still charged with emotion, feeling it prickle at the back of his neck and the skin of his arms, or maybe it’s just the cold.

‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Let’s get you home.’

‘You shouldn’t have,’ Sam says, and Dean’s mind helpfully supplies the rest of the sentence. Shouldn’t have said those things. Shouldn’t have left Sam.

‘Shouldn’t have talked me out of it,’ Sam says. ‘Should’ve let me do it.’

‘Don’t.’ Dean looks around over Sam’s head, eyes scanning the landscape, watching for danger, always. ‘Come on, don’t.’

Sam makes a weary sound, muffled against Dean’s chest. ‘I knew I wasn’t going to make it, Dean. Thought you did, too.’

There’s something horrifying about the thought that Sam believed Dean was willingly letting him go to his death. He clutches Sam closer. ‘No way, buddy. No way was I gonna let you die in there.’

Sam shakes his head. ‘You were right, Dean. About all of it. I just... I didn’t want to let you down again.’

‘And you thought dying was the way to not let me down?’ Dean almost welcomes the rush of anger, pulls away from Sam.

‘I don’t want to fight, Dean,’ Sam says tiredly, leaning back against the car.

Dean scrubs a hand over his face. Kid always knows how to make him feel guilty, without even actively trying. ‘Yeah, me either. You wanna go home, make some pancakes or something?’ Smothering Sam with food is one of his coping mechanisms. He’s learned to live with it.

Sam lets out a half-laugh, turning his head to look at Dean. ‘Pancakes? Seriously?’

Dean shrugs, nudges Sam carefully with his shoulder. ‘Hey, I make a mean pancake.’

Sam smiles, and it looks more like a wince. ‘Remember when you made me french toast? You almost burned down the kitchen.’

It takes a moment for Dean to figure out what Sam’s talking about. ‘You remember that? You couldn’t have been more than four.’

‘Been remembering a lot of things lately.’ Sam wraps his arms around himself.

Dean shouldn’t be surprised, really, not with the wealth of memories that Sam’s been accessing over the last few days, things about their childhood that even Dean didn’t remember, some of which he wishes could have stayed forgotten. He shrugs off his jacket and puts it around Sam’s shoulders. It feels like too little too late, but his instincts are a little lost right now.

‘Still hurts?’ he asks.

Sam shakes his head. ‘Not so much. Cold.’

‘Come on, let’s get you into the car.’

He opens the back door and half-drags Sam onto the seat, pulling the door shut and drawing Sam into his arms again. Sam doesn’t protest, comes willingly into his arms like he’s four again, pushing into Dean’s embrace.

‘Better?’ Dean asks against Sam’s hair, stroking a hand up his spine, reaching the nape of his neck and sliding his fingers into Sam’s hair. It’s limp and damp.

Sam doesn’t answer, but he turns into Dean’s body, holding on. He’s still in pain. Dean is sure of it, because being alert to Sam in distress is kind of hotwired into his system.

Sam mumbles something about Crowley, but Dean’s too strung out to care what he’s saying. Dean’s afraid. More than anything else, he’s afraid they’re never going to last like this. They’ve been too damned close for the last few days, Dean refusing to give Sam space and Sam indulging him like he always does when one of them is dying. Neither of them is dying anymore, at least not in the foreseeable future, but Dean isn’t ready to let go just yet. They’ve pushed and pushed and something’s got to give, but Dean’s damned if it’s going to be Sam.

His instincts may be fucked up right now, but he follows them and kisses the top of Sam’s head. He knows immediately that he hasn’t earned this yet, that he’s acting as though Sam’s already forgiven him, but part of him suspects that Sam’s the stronger one right now, that he’ll know if he wants to allow this.

Sam allows it. They stay like that for a while, Dean’s lips against the crown of his little brother’s head and Sam just _allowing_ it, as though Dean’s earned it after all.

 

\--

 

There isn’t much of a point in going back inside and checking to see if Crowley’s still there, but Dean does it anyway, if only to pull himself away from Sam for a little while before he says or does something he isn’t entitled to, at least not yet.

The church is empty. Dean gathers up the few items they’ve left inside, wincing as he picks up the syringe Sam had used on himself. He drops it to the floor and crushes it under his boot.

The confessional’s in a corner. Dean hesitates for a minute before stepping inside, taking a deep breath. His senses are still on hyper-alert, his ears prickling as though they can catch the echoes of the confession Sam made while he was in there.

Dean drops to one knee, presses a palm against the wooden floor, wonders if he’d be in here doing the same fucking thing if Sam had died. He’d half-visualized it when Naomi had told him Sam was going to die. Not this exact thing, but he’d felt the weight of the pseudo-grief he’s feeling now, unreasonable tears burning behind his eyes as if he’s failed, after everything, to save Sam. He blinks them away furiously, getting to his feet and stalking out the door.

 

\--

 

‘Hey,’ Sam says, pushing open the back door and getting out of the car. ‘You okay?’

‘Crowley’s gone.’ Dean goes around to the driver’s side, putting the car between himself and Sam.

Sam nods, unsurprised. ‘We’ll find him.’ He sounds like he means it. ‘Dean.’

‘I’m okay. Get in before you freeze your ass off.’

Sam gets into the passenger seat. Docile is the last thing Sam is, so Dean knows he’s just being agreeable, following orders because he doesn’t want to set Dean off.

He turns the key in the ignition before he’s finished closing the door, wanting to get the hell out of there before he says anything else. Sam’s watching him, quiet and hurt and sleep-deprived.

‘What?’ Dean asks, not looking at him. He focuses on the road, wanting to get them as far away as possible from that place where Sam almost died because Dean had failed him.

‘Nothing.’ Sam turns away from him, eyes fixed on the road outside as though he’s the one driving.

They don’t speak for the rest of the way. Dean’s never known quite how to speak to Sam in times like these. Talking to Sam is a mechanism that seems to kick into action in desperate times, when he isn’t really in control of the words, when they come spilling out because someone will die or the world will end if they don’t. In thirty years of driving around in the Impala with his little brother, though, he’s never figured out what the right words are when they’re together like this, no mending wall between them to keep them safe from each other, no anger or pain to shield him from knowing just how vulnerable Sam is when it comes to him. He’s never known what to do with the responsibility, has always hidden it behind the guise of duty. Watch out for Sammy. It’s his job, and one he’s piss-poor at.

He’d done the same thing the night Sam had left for Stanford. He’d driven Sam to the bus station like he didn’t know he was letting Sam go for four years, let Sam all but disappear from his life without a word. Sure, he’d rolled up all the money he had and stuffed it into Sam’s backpack when Sam wasn’t looking, but he hadn’t allowed himself to be anything other than stone-faced while they drove, hadn’t let Sam know how he already knew how much he was going to miss him. He’s made the same mistakes with Sam over and over again, shut him out and convinced himself that keeping Sam away doesn’t hurt.

He glances over at Sam from time to time. Sam’s all but passed out, wedged up against his door, black smudges of exhaustion below his closed eyes. Dean lets him sleep.

When he pulls up in front of the bunker, there are no craters in the road from falling angels, no debris, nothing to indicate that anything’s out of the ordinary.

He puts a hand on Sam’s knee. ‘Hey, Rapunzel. We’re home.’

Sam’s eyes open immediately. Not asleep, then. ‘Aurora,’ he says.

‘What?’

‘Aurora is Sleeping Beauty. Not Rapunzel.’

Dean laughs, light-headed with relief. ‘If you’re giving me lessons in fairy tales, you’re definitely still alive.’

‘I’m alive,’ Sam agrees. He puts his hand over Dean’s, links their fingers like it’s the most ordinary, familiar thing he can think of to do.

Dean lets the warmth of Sam’s hand seep into his skin, pathetically grateful that Sam isn’t cold anymore. He reaches over with his free hand to push Sam’s hair out of his face. ‘Rapunzel,’ he says again, wanting to tease, but it just comes out ridiculously fond.

Sam rolls his eyes and stumbles out of the car, swaying a little when he’s on his feet, and Dean catches his arm and gets under it, propping Sam up as they make their way inside.


End file.
